


A Quite Ponderous Revelation (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

by buttsnax



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Slash, agm-65 maverick ai-to-ground missiles, f-16 fighting falcon, m/m - Freeform, m61 vulcan cannon, target neutralized
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-29
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2017-12-25 01:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttsnax/pseuds/buttsnax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Sherlock to ground control,” he radioed. “Target neutralized.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quite Ponderous Revelation (Sherlock/John, NC-17)

Sherlock was sitting in the living room, a newspaper folded in his right hand. He made no sound of greeting, but John heard the rustling scratch of a pencil on paper.  
  
“Good evening, Sherlock,” said John, hanging up his coat on the rack in the foyer. He made his way to the kitchen as he heard Sherlock’s delayed and absent-minded reply of “Good evening to you, John.” John made his way to the kitchen and rustled through the fridge. Leftovers. More leftovers. Old leftovers. Very old leftovers.  
  
John sighed.  
  
“Did you have any plans for dinner, or . . . ” He trailed off, switching his attention to the cupboards instead. Well, there were noodles at least. John hated noodles.  
  
“Mmm,” said Sherlock distantly.  
  
“Ah, well then,” said John, as if that had been a helpful reply. He wandered over to where his roommate sat, lost in his crossword puzzle.  
  
“Anything interesting happen today while I was out?” John asked, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.  
  
“Mmm.”  
  
“23 across is ‘Frankfurt,’ by the way,” said John, sighing.  
  
“What? No it isn’t,” said Sherlock, looking up from his newspaper. “It’s ‘Cancun.’ Also, that doesn’t even fit.”  
  
“Well, no,” replied John. “But I finally got your attention, didn’t I?”  
  
Sherlock sighed and put down the newspaper. “I suppose I did get a bit caught up in that,” he said, chagrined.  
  
John walked over to their other chair and sat down across from Sherlock. He couldn’t help but notice the mug of tea on the coffee table. It looked full, and he knew it was quite cold by now. “I went by the bookstore,” he started, now that he had Sherlock’s full attention. “They didn’t have the book you wanted.”  
  
“Well I can’t say I’m surprised,” said Sherlock, looking unsurprised. “It’s been out of print for fifty years, and I daresay there can’t be much interest in antiquated methods of gem-cutting with obsolete tools these days.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Or . . . would there be much interest, do you think? Perhaps by the right person?”  
  
John grinned. “Got it in one guess.”  
  
Sherlock sat back, seeming pleased with himself. John continued.  
  
“Yes, in fact the proprietor seemed quite surprised to have two inquiries about such a rare book in such a short time period. It seems an older gentleman was in only but last week, asking for that very same book by name!”  
  
Sherlock was excited now and stood up, pacing the room, his lips pursed.  
  
John tried to continue.  
  
“The gentleman was, in fact-” he began, but was immediately interrupted.  
  
“Chinese?” asked Sherlock.  
  
John was taken aback, though he felt he really shouldn’t have been. “Why, yes,” he said.  
  
Sherlock nodded to himself.  
  
“Yes, yes. And, I would say, probably about five-foot-six--five-seven, tops? With a bit of a medicinal smell to him?”  
  
“Astonishing!” John blurted out. “Right on both counts! How did you know?”  
  
“Ah, John,” Sherlock started, “The clues were in front of us the entire time. Don’t you remember, in the museum, the case that previously housed the emerald before it had gone missing? What did we find there?”  
  
“You mean the moth wings? I know they were from Chinese oak moths, but that seems to be rather a large jump . . .”  
  
“Not merely Chinese moth wings, but wings which has been dyed orange, which is part of traditional Chinese medicine in the Hunan province,” said Sherlock.  
  
“Yes, yes, I looked that up. But still, that’s a leap to-”  
  
“And,” continued Sherlock, “When we talked to Mary about the canvas scraps we found in the abandoned van, did you notice the painting on her mantle?”  
  
“The painting of horses? I thought it rather garish, myself,” said John, now quite confused. He could only watch in admiration as Sherlock pieced the clues together.  
  
“Ah yes, but it wasn’t the painting I was looking at, but rather, the frame! You see, gilt frames like that are unique to the 18th century Netherlands, but it was clearly a modern oil painting. The connections to the reptile zoo become undeniable at this point.”  
  
“They do?” asked John.  
  
“Yes, you see, Patel, the young man at the counter, was selling rare lizards on the black market to Chinese herbalists,” said Sherlock.  
  
John furrowed his brow.  
  
“I don’t understand,” he said. “How does this relate to the painting’s frame?”  
  
“Ah,” Sherlock began. “John, don’t you remember the man giving the tour of the museum?” Sherlock was very animated now. He was clearly close to revealing the conclusion. John felt himself being swept up in his excitement.  
  
“Yes, yes I do! He had a badge that entreated one to ask him about the fine points of Dutch post-renaissance fine art!”  
  
Sherlock was practically yelling at this point. His energy was infectious.  
  
“Indeed he did! And combined with his perfectly sculpted mustache, there is only one conclusion we can draw -”  
  
“I love you!” shouted John.  
  
Sherlock went silent.  
  
John clamped his hands over his mouth. What had he done? He had been caught up in the moment--swept up in the thrill of deduction. He had never intended for that to come out. It had been his dark secret for months--for years, probably, but he hadn’t admitted it to himself until now.  
  
“What,” stated Sherlock, genuine confusion on his face.  
  
“Sherlock,” said John. “With all your logic, with all your reason, with all your intuition and foresight, I’m surprised you never saw it.” He reached his hand out cautiously, and held it to the side of Sherlock’s face. “I . . . I was waiting for the right time to say it. I know now isn’t the right time, but I couldn’t help myself.”  
  
“What.”  
  
John felt his cheeks heating up. He didn’t know what to say, and yet at the same time he couldn’t stop talking.  
  
“The way you get so . . . so into the mysteries you solve. Despite your reserved demeanor, I’ve never seen such passion for the truth.” His hand moved up to stroke an errant lock of Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock didn’t pull away. John took that as a good sign. He hadn’t dared, hadn’t even entertained the idea of allowing himself to hope that this could happen.  
  
They stood there, unmoving, for almost a minute. John couldn’t help himself. The secret was out. The die was cast. There was no going back. If he was going to do it . . . he had to do it now.  
  
He closed his eyes and leaned forward. His body trembled as he leaned into a kiss . . . but was stopped by the feeling of warm, hard steel on his hands.  
  
“What in the . . .” John pulled back.  
  
“I can’t. I must go now,” said Sherlock, as he turned into an F-16 Fighting Falcon air superiority fighter. Fire sprung up in a mighty inferno as 17,000 pounds of thrust spat from his roaring engines, rocketing him into the sky. It took only moments before he crashed through the sound barrier, cruising at an altitude of 30,000 feet. As he climbed, his aerodynamic efficiency increased and he soon surpassed Mach 2.  
  
Like an arrow of judgement from the hand of god, he sped toward his target. The air glowed and pulsed around him, parting before him, enveloping him. He screamed toward the insurgent base, a terrifying visage of steel and fury. Anti-aircraft batteries opened up around him, the bullets hissing through the air, red and hot but slow, oh how slow they were. They were unprepared, and couldn’t match his speed.  
  
His 20 millimeter M61 Vulcan cannon whirred and whined as it spun up, then flung raw death down at the puny beings below. The large rounds thundered into the ground in a line of devastation that claimed the lives of only two, but sent the rest of the gunnery crew running for their lives. He turned his cannon to track them but sensed that this was enough and let it spin down.  
  
With the crude anti-aircraft guns deserted, his target was vulnerable and he disgorged two AGM-65 Maverick air-to-ground missiles from under his wings. They hissed to life and then roared as their propulsion systems drove them forward. One impacted right away--deep into the communications bunker ahead of him, which exploded in a cloud of fire and debris. The second streaked off for a moment longer, before landing with pinpoint accuracy on the munitions depot.  
  
He was well clear of the explosion, but still felt the massive shockwave as the ammunitions dump exploded, showering the remaining outbuildings of the compound with debris and shrapnel. He was too high, already shrieking victoriously past the target, to hear the screams.  
  
“Sherlock to ground control,” he radioed. “Target neutralized.”


End file.
